


Runaway

by Lunamcwerewolf



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Brainwashing, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hurt Stiles, Hypothermia, Kidnapped Stiles, Kidnapping, Manipulative Peter, OCD, Peter is a dick, Physical Abuse, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, Vomiting, more so than usual, seriously this fic is gross, the BCPD sucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-11-09 10:42:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11102895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunamcwerewolf/pseuds/Lunamcwerewolf
Summary: When asked later in life, Stiles would admit that he didn’t really know when it began. It could have been when they met. Or the first time he almost died. Or that one day in particular when everything changed. Maybe it should have been obvious to him. But nothing about it was terribly clear. Nothing.---TL;DR: Stiles is kidnapped and no one is looking for him.





	1. APRIL: Part one

**Author's Note:**

> If any of the tags could possibly be triggering to you, PLEASE reconsider reading.  
> I'm always open to requests.

            

              When asked later in life, Stiles would admit that he didn’t really know when it began. It could have been when they met. Or the first time he almost died. Or that one day in particular when everything changed. Maybe it should have been obvious to him. But nothing about it was terribly clear. Nothing.

              It was the end of a long-ass feud between the pack and someone else—to be honest, he doesn’t remember who. Scott keeps reminding him, but it never sticks—and well after midnight. But with the adrenaline of almost dying several times over, there was no way he’d have been able to sleep. For days, even. So instead, he hopped in his Jeep and drove to the nearest open restaurant. There was an all-night diner not fifteen minutes away and his Jeep had _just_ enough gas to get there and back. Practically fated.

              Once there, he chose the booth furthest to the back, trying to ignore the snide glances from several truckers thirty years his senior and two-hundred pounds bigger. _I mean, yeah,_ he thought, _scrawny kid. But a scrawny kid who’s single-handedly taken down some of the most dangerous creatures in the U.S… More or less._ He didn’t have anything to be afraid of. Not with the power at his disposal. One odd heartbeat and a whole army of werewolves would be there to protect him.

              “Stiles,” a voice called from out of his periphery. Stiles shrieked, knocking his head against the wall behind him.

              “Peter,” he replied, voice cracking like he’d just hit puberty. “What’re y—what’re you doing here?”

              Peter sat down across the table from him, smug and unreadable as always. Forget the homicidal tendencies, it was his ever-calm demeanor that made Stiles nervous. “I could ask you the same thing. Don’t you have school in the morning? Or daycare, maybe?”

              “I’m seventeen,” Stiles exclaimed in his most nonchalantly deep voice.

              “Well, sure had me fooled.”

              “What do you want, Peter? Or did you just come here to be creepy?”

              He shrugged. “Little o’ both.” Peter folded his hands on the table, leaning forward. “I have a proposition for you.”

              “No.”

              “Will you at least hear what I have to say first?”

              Stiles shook his head, crossing both arms over his chest. “I don’t wanna.”

              “For God’s sake, just listen.” His voice rose just enough to shut Stiles up. It honestly didn’t take much. “Derek is leaving Beacon Hills.”

              “What?”

              “He said something about needing a ‘fresh start.’ Whatever the hell that means. But I think he should stay, and I’m sure you and Scott do too.”

              Stiles narrowed his eyes, leaning back against the cushioned seat. “Why do you care? You hate Derek.”

              Peter scoffed. “I never said that! He’s my nephew, dumbass. And I think it’s best for him to stay here with you idiots, instead of running off to some place where we’ll never hear from him again. I know. I know. It’s gross. And if you tell him—so help me God, Stiles—Stiles, look at me—… I will rip your throat out with my teeth. Am I clear?”

              “Crystal,” Stiles said, swallowing the lump rising in his throat.

              “Good. So you’ll talk to him?”

              “Me?” Stiles exclaimed. “When has he ever listened to me? I don’t think he’ll appreciate ‘you can’t leave or else I’ll be eaten alive like a human corn cob.’”

              “You don’t know that.”

              “Pretty sure I do.”

              “Well, then get Scott to do it. He’s always making grand speeches about stuff.”

              Stiles tilted his head, humming in thought. “True,” he said. “He is the more sensitive one of our friend group.”

              “Great!” Peter leaped up onto his feet, grabbing Stiles’s car keys from off the table. “Let’s go.”

              Stiles awkwardly shuffled his way out of the booth, running to catch up with him at the door. “Go? Go _now_? Dude, it’s, like, two a.m.”

              “Yes, Stiles. And he’s packing to leave as we speak. You know Derek, not one for goodbyes. So get in your car. We’re going to stop him.”

              “Can I at least stop by Scott’s house?”

              “No time. Call him on the way.”

              “But—“

              “Stiles! Do you want to be a human corn cob?”

              “… no.”

          “Then hurry up!” Once they finally reached Stiles’s car, he unlocked the doors and slid into the driver’s seat. “Did your parents never teach you to park under a street light?”

              He scoffed. “No. Why?” All he saw next were claws and teeth, before finding himself pressed against the inside of the door, a familiarly sharp pain at his neck. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think that Peter sharpened his claws for good measure.

              “Because you never know who’s waiting in the dark.”

              Stiles tried to respond. To use some choice words. But no sound came out. He was afraid to even breathe. How had he been so stupid to ever believe Peter? Peter who tried to kill him when they first met. Peter who’s tried to kill him numerous times since! And he followed him out into the goddamn night.

              “Don’t worry. I’m not going to kill you.”

              It was only then that he found his voice. “Then put away the claws, will you?”

              “Oof, can’t. Sorry, kid. I’ve got this all planned out.”

              “All of what—“

              When Stiles woke up, he was in the trunk of a car with his hands and feet bound, and a pounding in his head like someone had hit him with a brick.


	2. APRIL: Part two

               Stiles spent the first hour trying to find a way out of the trunk—to no success. Eventually becoming so exhausted, he could do nothing else but lie there and listen to the engine roar. No one would be able to hear him if he screamed. No one, but Peter, that is. Was anyone looking for him? Had anyone noticed he was gone? Even if they didn’t know yet, they would soon enough, and he had a pack of werewolves and the entire Beacon Hills Police Department on his side. They’d probably tracked his phone already and were on their way to get him.

               Stiles reached a hand into his pocket. No phone. _Just the wrong one,_ he told himself, before finding it no other pocket. _It probably slipped out when he threw me in here._ Stretching out blindly, he ran his hands over every part of the trunk several times and it became irrefutable, his cellphone wasn’t there.

               _Who am I kidding,_ he thought. _Peter’s smart. He probably smashed it the second I was out._ It was this, of all the things that popped into his head over the last few hours, that made him need to stifle a sob. The pressure only built inside his skull until it was erupting from him with a blood-curdling scream.

               The car came to a screeching halt, knocking the air out of his lungs. Stiles’s heartbeat traveled into his ears as a door slammed and footsteps came crunching by. The trunk door flew open and an arm reached in, grabbing Stiles by his collar, and yanking him out onto the gravel road.

               “You think you’re fucking clever, huh?”

               He screwed his eyes shut against the bright sun, Peter’s voice suddenly the only thing he knew. “No, no.”

               “You think I didn’t anticipate this? Look around, Stiles,” he exclaimed in a grand voice. “There’s no one hear but us, scream all you want.” Peter was right. They were in the middle of nowhere. Nothing but sand and gravel as far as Stiles could see.

               “Where are we,” he asked, voice strained.

               Peter laughed. “Like I’m going to tell you that. Are you done?” Stiles looked up at him with wide eyes, so overwhelmed with information that he didn’t hear at first. “Are you done whining,” Peter asked, drawing out the words. Stiles nodded his head. “Good. Get back in the trunk.”

               “But—“

               “I said get in the TRUNK BEFORE I DRAG YOU BY YOUR FINGERNAILS!” He did as was told, drowning out his shame with thoughts of self-preservation. On the one hand, he knew Peter, had known him for years. But in the same vain, he knew Peter was violent and unpredictable. That his fear was completely justified.

 

               Eventually, after an ungodly amount of time in what had to qualify as a literal pit of hell, the car came to another stop and Peter stepped out. Stiles heard the door slam in that characteristically Hale way. Again, the trunk door swung open. And again, the sudden burst of light was excruciating.

               “Get out,” were the only words that greeted him. Stiles climbed out at the speed his dormant joints would allow, tumbling over the edge of the car and into sand. More goddamn sand.

               “Where the hell are we,” he asked, vision wavering in and out of focus.

               Peter grabbed him by his collar once again and hoisted him up. “You don’t get to ask questions.”

               “Really,” Stiles said, pushing Peter’s hands away with a newfound confidence. “Because last time I checked, I can do whatever the hell I want. And I’ve got a news flash for you, _buddy_ —you may be all brute force and scary eyebrows, but I’ve got intellect to match. Okay? You don’t scare me.”

               A low chuckle followed his speech. The kind that never meant anything good. And Peter was a lot of things, but he wasn’t one for _totally_ senseless violence. This was exactly why the claws coming straight for Stiles’s face were such a surprise. He barely saw them at all before blood obstructed his vision. At first, he didn’t feel much of anything. And then Stiles held a hand to the gaping cavity where his cheek should have been, and all he felt was pain.

               “Don’t worry,” he heard. “That wasn’t deep enough to turn you. But it should serve as a warning— _don’t test me_.”

               Words came pouring from Stiles before he could stop himself. “What is wrong with you? We’re allies!” A hand pushed him forward, almost back to the ground, but Stiles managed to catch himself.

               “Not anymore. Get inside.” He was guided in the same fashion up a few steps and into the house he hadn’t been previously aware of. It smelled rank, definitely abandoned. Wallpaper peeling away from the kitchen walls. Both sand and dust competing for space on the hardwood floor.

Drops of blood hit the ground with alarming contrast and a realization came over Stiles. “I need stitches.”

“Alright,” Peter said, taking a seat and throwing his feet up on the kitchen table. “There’s probably some sewing supplies around here somewhere.” Stiles gaped. He must have been joking. “Oh, and if you think about making a run for it, just remember, there’s forty miles of desert between us and civilization.”

 

               With a combined sense of urgency and complete resignation, Stiles made his way through the surprisingly large house. Whoever lived here— _whenever_ they lived here—weren’t strapped for cash. That was for sure. He practically ransacked the place until finding a metal tin that screamed “Grandma’s sewing kit.” And sure enough, that’s exactly what it was. But his euphoric moment was obliterated by the knowledge of what this meant. He was going to have to stick a needle in his own face.

_If I don’t,_ he told himself, _I could bleed out and die. This is very clearly the better option. Besides, people always say that it doesn’t hurt as much as you think it will._

_But what do I know? The people I hang around with never need stitches. Why couldn’t I have made more human friends?_

_Not the time._ He took a deep breath. _Just get it over with._

               He first sanitized the needle, having learned quite a bit in his time as a paramedic for all things supernatural. Turns out, it wasn’t as painless as he’d been led to believe. In fact, it was somehow more excruciating than the initial blow or even the subsequent pain. Perhaps it was due to him staring at his own reflection, watching himself pierce his skin over and over again. But regardless, he did it, and then made a mental note to tell everyone about it once he got home. Whenever that would be.

               He shook his head, trying to get rid of the thought. Trying not to think about home. Trying to continue believing that this wasn’t as bad as it seemed. That Peter was just going to keep him long enough to scare some people, maybe get some ransom money, and then send Stiles back good as new. _Well,_ he thought, looking back at his mutilated reflection, _almost._

 

               Stiles set the tin on a nearby bed and made his way to the kitchen, figuring they needed to talk.

               Peter, still lounging in the same spot, stood up when Stiles entered the room. “C’mere,” he said, grabbing Stiles’s face and examining the wound. “Not bad. Should hold up.”

               “Yeah, and if it doesn’t?”

               “Then you’re outta luck, kid.”

               Stiles watched as he sat back down, calm as ever despite the circumstances, but decided it was best to remain where he was. For a long time, all he did was stand and observe, trying desperately to find a way to get information without asking any questions for fear of being attacked. “So…” He folded his arms over his chest, a heavy panic settling into his stomach like lead. He had been in dangerous situations before, but never alone and never this far away from everyone else. No one knew where he was. Himself included. At this rate, there was no chance of being found. He could be violently killed and left to rot without anyone ever knowing what happened.

  
               “Stiles!” Startled, he snapped out of his thoughts. “If you’re going to freak out, can you do it somewhere else? I can’t hear over the sound of your heart beating.”

               Without stopping to think, he took a step forward, clenching his hands into fists. “I want to go home.”

               Peter’s head lolled back, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, I got that.”

               “Now.”

               “Well, then I guess it’s just too damn bad you aren’t making the decisions here.”

               Stiles barred his teeth, blood boiling. “Maybe if I knew _why_ —“

               “If you knew why, I can guarantee you’d be even more of a pain in my ass than you already are.”

               “Then let me go!” Peter raised a clawed hand, making like he was about to strike, but stopped as Stiles recoiled.

               “Listen, kid,” he said, taking calculated steps forward. “From now on, you’re here with me. You do what I say. And you don’t… talk… BACK.” His eyes turned bright blue, fangs visible. One wrong move and Stiles would be dead. So he stayed silent. “Now go sit quietly somewhere else while I sort things out.”


	3. APRIL: Part three

               Initially, Stiles wasn’t sure how long he spent in the basement. It felt like a month, but could have only been a few days. There was a makeshift palette on the floor constructed of unfolded cardboard boxes and it wasn’t too bad if he didn’t think about what his old bed felt like. Which he often did. The basement smelled like mold and dirt. It had one tiny window in the corner which sat just above the ground. It barely let in any light, but at least Stiles could vaguely figure the time of day. And that was almost all he cared about. It was all he had _to_ care about. But he tried not to think about that either.

               A couple times a day, Peter would open the door just enough to toss a plate of food onto the top step and lock it back. Stiles never thought he would say this, but he became desperate for a conversation, even to just sit near him for a few minutes. Anything to contradict the silent, empty space he had occupied for so long. And that’s not even getting into his cell phone withdrawal. It was embarrassingly painful. Every now and then, he’d move to readjust earbuds that weren’t there, or reach into his pocket to check the time. It was almost worse than the isolation, to be perfectly honest. He made a mental note to leave that out of his story when he got home.

 _“Yeah, it was fine,” he’d say. “I barely noticed my phone was gone.”_ And they had to believe him because he was a victim.

               No. No, that’s dumb. He wasn’t a victim. He was fine. He could handle himself. It was just a little kidnapping. Nothing he hadn’t dealt with before. No biggie. Not for a professional monster hunter like him… _I wonder how many other people have had that exact thought._

               However, the worst part by far, more so than even the lack of internet, was the heat. The basement didn’t have air conditioning, and they were in the desert. In spring. He imagined he’d lost at _least_ ten pounds from sweating alone. Thank God there weren’t more windows.

               At some point, Stiles had to simply turn off and go somewhere else. Home, he decided _. His dad was there, as well as Scott, Lydia, even Derek. And his mom. They were all sitting around the living room, eating lunch, and just enjoying each other’s company. Laughing. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it didn’t matter, because he was there with them. He was safe. And loved._

               A _thud_ drew him from his thoughts. Peter was standing at the top of the stairs, silhouetted by the light from the house. “Come here,” he said before disappearing behind the open door.

               Stiles had to stop at the threshold, the light from the first floor too severe for his eyes. As he made his way further into the house, an unfamiliar voice caught his attention. _Peter brought someone here,_ he thought. And Peter was bad enough, but a stranger was somehow worse. And then he entered the living room and saw where the voice was coming from.

               “How’d you get cable all the way out here,” he asked, mouth watering from the prospect of watching TV.

               “Don’t worry about it,” Peter replied, gesturing for Stiles to take a seat. After planting firmly on the hardwood floor, as far away from Peter as possible, the volume turned up and Stiles quickly discovered what we was meant to see.

 _“We begin today’s report with unfortunate news—an amber alert has been put in place for a missing seventeen year-old boy from Beacon Hills, California. Mieczyslaw Stilinski, known to friends and family as ‘Stiles,’ went missing late Sunday night after leaving_ Lazy Susan’s 24-hour Diner _. Little information is known of his disappearance, but officials speculate he might have run away.”_

               “What,” Stiles exclaimed, feeling suddenly nauseous.

 _“His father, Sheriff Noah Stilinski, had this to say…”_ It cut to a shot of the Sheriff and Stiles stopped breathing altogether.

 _“Look, my son might be a little wild and delinquent—and yes, he has disappeared for a_ couple _of days before—but he’s never run away. And_ never _alone. He has no reason to. Trust me, something happened to Stiles. And I’d appreciate it if my fellow officers would acknowledge that. We need to find him. Please. Help me find my son.”_

               After a few gut-wrenching seconds of the Sheriff’s distraught face, it cut back to the news anchors from before. _“If you have any information on the whereabouts of Stiles, we urge you to call the number at the bottom of the screen.”_

               Stiles leaped to his feet, turning furiously on Peter. “Why would you show me that?! They think I ran away! They’re not even looking for me!”

               Peter was grinning. Actually grinning. And Stiles swore he’d never felt worse than he had in that moment. “Just thought you should see it. I want you to stay up-to-date on current events.”

               “You’re a fucking psychopath,” Stiles exclaimed, advancing on Peter with what felt like rage-fueled invincibility. “I’ll kill you!” And then there was a hand around his throat, lifting him off the ground. As the edges of his vision faded away, he saw nothing but that grin. That pride. Peter did this on purpose. He wanted an excuse to hurt Stiles, and that’s exactly what he got.

               “With what? Your intellect?” The hand around his throat released and he was suddenly lying on the floor, gasping for air. “There’s a pile of dishes in the sink with your name on them,” Peter said, taking a seat like nothing had happened and raising the volume once more.

               Stiles didn’t argue, as much as he wanted, because the burning in his throat begged him not to. _Just do the fucking dishes,_ it said, _don’t make this any worse than it already is._ So he did. And along the way, as haphazard rebellion, he stole little bits of food from the top dishes, relishing the taste of day-old bread and soggy potato chip crumbs. All the while, thinking, _I’ve got to get out of here._


	4. MAY

               Though he thought it impossible, three weeks in, life hit an all-time low for Stiles Stilinski. “It’s my own fault,” he told himself. “I don’t know how to shut up.” Somehow, it felt better to blame himself than the actual perpetrator.

               Peter continued to show him reports of his disappearance, more specifically that they weren’t any closer to finding him than the day he went missing. And Stiles would cry. And Peter would laugh. So Stiles would yell and scream, and soon find himself doubled over on the floor in a pool of his own blood, which he then had to clean up.

               But three weeks in, he stopped reacting. At least outwardly. With a broken rib, nose, and bruised… _everything_ , Stiles learned to stay quiet. And this only made Peter worse somehow. Whereas before, he’d laugh and start swinging, now _he_ yelled and screamed and threw things across the room. But worst of all, he beat into Stiles the worries he had already been carrying.

               “They’re not even looking for you.”

               “They don’t care.”

               “Your dad hasn’t cried once. He’s glad you’re gone.”

               “Beacon Hills is a better place without you.”

               Stiles held in his tears, difficult as it was. And resigned himself to a life of muteness. No matter what he said, nothing was good enough. Nothing would stop his bones from breaking, or blood from spilling. This was his life now. And he better damn well get used to it.

               Listening to the reports, he found hidden messages in every word.

               “Some possible new evidence has found its way to the BCPD.” _The police are just trying to look good._

               “A man with an extensive criminal record makes his way to the top of the suspect list.” _There’s some guy who could have maybe done this, but we don’t really care._

               “Police have no probable cause to search the house.” _It took more effort than anyone was willing to put in to find you._

               “All efforts to locate him have been unsuccessful.” _No one’s actually looking. We just don’t care._

 

               Every day was like wading through water, mucky and slow and strangely distant. Stiles didn’t feel like he was actually there. As though, while washing dishes, he would suddenly wake up, back home, to find it had all been a terrible dream. Because that’s the only way any of this made sense. People don’t get kidnapped… Well, people _do_ get kidnapped, but not him. Sure, he’d been through some tough things, but by his new standards, they all seemed meager.

               That was when it hit him. _I need to get out of here._

               Without warning, his heart started racing, blood pumping, room spinning. Every fiber of his being told him to run. The front door was right there— _Just go!_ Sure, Peter said it was forty miles to the nearest anything, but Peter was a pathological liar. Odds are, if he left now, he’d be back in civilization before the sun went down.

               He moved to set the dishes down, preparing himself to run, when a thought hit him head on. _Peter’s a werewolf. He could find me blindfolded in a snowstorm._ And thoughts of freedom turned to blood staining the ground, claws with which he’d become all-too familiar. If he ran, he’d be dead in a matter of seconds. That was simply a fact. _Do it,_ part of him said, _it’s better than this._ And in his current state, he figured it’d be more a mercy-killing than anything else.

               Stiles held a hand over his broken rib, reminded of the pain he’d begun to subconsciously tune out. The matter of the fact was, he couldn’t run in this condition. So even if he managed to get out the door without being caught (unlikely), he wouldn’t make it very far.

               And at that, Stiles resumed his work, choosing to pretend nothing had happened at all.

 

               In the days that followed, Peter began letting Stiles stay on the ground floor more often, but never without consequences. Being in the basement meant crippling darkness and isolation. But remaining in the house meant dealing with Peter. And the things he said only continued to worsen.

               “Useless.”

               “Worthless.”

               “Stupid.”

               “Weak.”

               “See, Stiles, this is why they’re not looking for you.” _I know,_ he caught himself thinking before all but screaming, _No! It’s not true. He’s just trying to hurt me._ But it worked. The things Peter said hurt far more than any broken bone. When Stiles couldn’t internally fight back, he would cry, and when he cried, Peter shoved his head into the toilet until his lungs burned from lack of oxygen. Most days ended with Stiles curled into a ball in the farthest corner of the basement, watching ants march across the dirt floor to old plates of food.

               The nights passed in waves of sanity, falling in and out of consciousness of his surroundings. Did he sleep? There was no way to tell. Stiles didn’t dream anymore. Sleep was no longer a release of the stressful days. It was temperamental, and painful, and still too hot for comfort. He often stared at the only door, afraid his partial relaxation would be interrupted by brutality because this was his new normal.


	5. JUNE

               The days got warmer, beating him into submission the second he stepped into that basement. Some days, it was all Stiles could think about— _when was the last time he had water, what were the symptoms of heat stroke_. The smell of his own unwashed body was putrid in a way even a teenage boy found sickening. _But maybe,_ he thought, _if I don’t move, Peter will forget I’m here._ Sure, it was a long shot, but it brought him more hope than he’d felt in a month.

               Stiles had a hunch that Peter wanted him to sweat himself to death. The hotter the days got, the longer he spent in the basement. And the only good thing about it was that his injuries has begun to heal. He wasn’t sure his rib was set right, but it was wildly better and only hurt a little when he cried.

               At some point, he began wondering how his situation must have affected Scott’s grades. _I mean, first being a werewolf, then an alpha, and now this? How the fuck is he expected to succeed?_ And there was no doubt his dad’s drinking had gotten worse. As soon as he got home, he’d find Scott a tutor and get rid of all the booze in the house. That was the _first_ thing he’d do. _Well, maybe a shower should be number one._ And then drag all the fans he could find into his room and sleep in a parka for a few days.

 

               Two months in and he still had no idea why he was even there. And he wasn’t going to ask Peter. Again. It seemed he was there simply to clean. That’s all Peter had him doing. Cleaning and then waiting to clean again. It was clear there was no ransom and if Peter wanted to kill him he’d already be dead. So what reason did he have for being there?

               Part of him suspected he was chosen as a punching bag, one that couldn’t run away. Was Peter really so sadistic that he’d take someone from their home just to— _Yes,_ he thought, _he absolutely is._

               It was days before the basement door opened, before any food or water was delivered to his personal level of hell. And Stiles was on the verge of death. Or at least that’s how it felt. He’d given up trying to stay upright and resigned himself to lying on the dirt floor like a corpse. Moving hurt. Breathing hurt. He’d forgotten what it felt like to _not_ have a migraine. He wondered if this was the plan; steal him away, hide him in the desert, and let him die slowly in a pool of his own sweat and vomit.

               All of his senses were either heightened or dulled, not allowing him to focus on anything. All he could do was watch the days pass in a silence so deafening he at first didn’t hear the door swing open. And then he was being hoisted up and dragged into the air-conditioned house, before collapsing into a half-conscious heap on the kitchen floor.

               “God! That is disgusting,” Peter exclaimed as he ran to close the basement door, stepping over Stiles’s limp body without concern. “I can smell it from every corner of the house. Go clean yourself up.”

               Stiles didn’t move. He couldn’t. And he never thought a kitchen floor could feel like heaven.

 **** “I said, get up.”

               He raised an arm, pushing down on the heel of his palm with all the strength he could muster, and propped himself up. Stiles never imagined such a meager frame could be so impossibly heavy. The room spun around him, nothing remaining in the same place for long. The world lolled heavily to one side and crashed down onto his bruised back. As his head hit the floor, it became nothing but a blur. The world was a snow storm he’d never be able to navigate.

               “Are you fucking kidding me,” Peter called. “Get over yourself and stand up.”

               “I…” Stiles coughed, the severe dryness of his throat coming as an unexpected surprise, “can’t.” There was a familiar groan that he was sure signaled attack, flinching violently when a hand touched his back. But then he was picked up much too quickly for comfort and carried out of the kitchen. “What’re you doing?”

               “You’re going to get clean even if I have to carry you to the ocean. I can’t live like this anymore. That smell is what killed the dinosaurs.” You _can’t live like this,_ Stiles thought, _that’s hysterical._

               Peter dumped him in the rusted bathtub and turned on the shower. The ice-cold water was not as pleasant as Stiles had hoped, instead quite like the injuries he’d endured previously. Suddenly, every nerve in his body was at full attention and if he could, he would have leaped to his feet and out of the water. But unfortunately, he didn’t even have enough strength for a regular-sized adrenaline rush. _How pathetic is that?_

               “Sit there until you don’t stink anymore. I’ve got some clothes for you in the other room. And once you’re done, clean the basement. You might even get some food if you do a half decent job.”

               His eyes lit up. _Food._ Stiles hadn’t gotten any food in days. The thought alone brought bile to his throat, but if he threw up in here, Peter would surely kill him. He swallowed the bile and tried to imagine eating a sandwich, holding the soft bread in his calloused hands and tasting each individual flavor inside. It didn’t matter what they were. Anything at all would be heavenly. Anything at all was exactly what he wanted.

 

               Stiles sat in the tub until he felt strong enough to stand on his own, which was, admittedly, a while. He hobbled into the next room, changing into the clothes laid out for him which looked to be Peter’s, but hung on his starving frame like a bed sheet. And anyway, he was just happy to be dry. Making his way through the house, he stopped in front of Peter who was lounging in the living room, reading a book. Stiles learned to never do anything without permission.

               “Can I go clean the basement now,” he asked in a meager voice, terrified of making even the tiniest mistake.

               “For the love of God, please do.”

 

               The smell from the basement was nothing short of startling. He must’ve become desensitized to it, because this was not how he remembered it. _Although, the heat can’t be helping much._ It took him a while, and a lot of breath-holding, but Stiles cleaned until it looked like a totally different place, anticipating harsh scrutiny. And when he came back to the first floor, he was allowed to make himself something to eat. It was the happiest he’d remembered feeling in a long time.


	6. JULY

               There came a point when he couldn’t stand it anymore. Couldn’t take another beating or lecture about how no one was coming to save him. He couldn’t sit in the hundred-plus heat and wait to die, knowing his body would never be found even in its shallow, desert grave. That’s all the past three months had been, a slow death. And he knew it from the start, whether he wanted to admit it or not. This wasn’t fair. And he wouldn’t stand for it a second longer.

               With no way of knowing when he’d next be allowed upstairs, Stiles hatched a plan. There was only one thing that had gotten him out of the basement. It was disgusting. But it was all he had.

               He took several deep breaths, trying with all his might not to think of what was to come. _Just act. Don’t think._ He shoved two fingers down his throat, gagging violently, and did so until his stomach was empty and body shaking. This allowed him just enough time to plan ahead, knowing Peter wouldn’t be able to handle the stench for long. Stiles knew from his time spent under the house that there wasn’t anything there that could even conceivably knock down a werewolf. But upstairs, there sure were plenty. He tried to remember the first floor exactly as it was, disappointing himself in the process. Maybe it was just the weakness, but he’d now have to act on his feet, something that had never been much of a problem, but wasn’t hugely reassuring in his current state.

               Stiles tensed up as the ceiling creaked above him, heavy footsteps weighing down the ancient floorboards. Peter would be mad which might cloud his mind a little… if he was lucky. Which the past had proven he was not.

               The basement door flew open, colliding with the wall like a cracking whip. “What is your problem,” Peter called, bounding down the stairs with exhausting arrogance. “Can you not keep it together for a single fucking day?”

               “I’m sorry,” Stiles said, propped up on his elbows, feigning illness.

               “Get up. I’m not carrying you this time.” Stiles did as he was told, struggling to his feet only to collapse into his captor’s arms and be shoved away with disgust, hitting the ground on his hands and knees.

               “I’m sorry,” he said, crawling to the edge of the room and propping himself up against the wall. His knees wobbled as he attempted to stand, suddenly being grabbed by the arm and yanked upright.

               “Go!” He made his way up the stairs, holding onto the wall for support as Peter mumbled, “I have to do everything around here.”

 _Don’t think. Just act. Don’t think. Just act. Don’t think._ Stiles hobbled up the stairs and into the kitchen, stopping just behind the fridge to keep a safe distance between them. He turned to face the counter top and stifled a gasp, having completely forgotten about his best option. At the back of the counter, hidden behind the fridge where Peter couldn’t see, was a knife block, at the center of which sat the biggest butcher knife he’d ever seen.

               “Go clean yourself up. I’ll find something you can wear—but I swear to God, if this happens again, you won’t have a stomach from which to vomit.” Stiles didn’t move an inch, paralyzed in fear and anticipation. His hair, long from neglect, stuck to his sweaty forehead, palms threatening to slip off the countertop. “You hear me?”

 _Go! Attack!_ A voice yelled. _This is your chance!_ His arms shook violently, trying of their own volition to both move and stay completely still. _This is it,_ he thought, _I’m going to die from not doing anything at all._

               “What the hell is your problem?” Again, he heard the heavy footsteps. Peter’s voice growing closer. Tone angrier. The world was spinning. Shifting. Trying to knock him off his feet. He recoiled as the figure in his periphery grew larger. And then it was right on him. And he didn’t think. He grabbed the knife, plunged it forward, and ran back until he was pressed against the sink. When the fog wore off, Stiles saw what he had done. Peter stood in the center of the room, gaping at the wooden handle that protruded from his abdomen. He did it. Stiles did it. He watched in awe as blood poured from the wound, too in shock to feel the least bit proud.

               Peter fell to his knees, moving like he was going to remove the knife. So Stiles ran, shoving him over for good measure, and grabbing a set of keys from the wall beside the door. He burst out into the sunlit world, continuing to run even through his temporary blindness until he was at the car, ripping open the driver’s side door and getting in, locking it behind him. _No time to waste,_ he thought, holding up the keys to find the right one. None of them looked like a key to an ignition, but the car Peter had stolen somewhere back in California was old as dirt. It didn’t even have a CD player.

               He slid into the driver’s seat, slamming the door behind him and making sure to lock it. He quickly discovered there were no seatbelts— _old as dirt_ —but that didn’t matter. He locked the car once more, just to make sure it was done and held up the ring of keys.

               “Okay, okay,” Stiles muttered to himself, picking one at random and trying it, to no avail. “That’s fine,” he said, mostly for his own sanity. He tried another, which again was wrong. “Oh my GOD, c’mon!” One more. Didn’t work. Another. Didn’t work. Another.

_CRASH!_

               In his frenzy, Stiles didn’t notice the deranged Peter coming straight at him, or the fist destined for the drivers’ side window. Not until it was grabbing him by the collar, suddenly unconcerned with the vomit that littered his shirt, and knocking him against the still locked door several times. When Stiles was thoroughly bruised, Peter let him go, reaching instead to unlock the door from the inside, swinging it open, and dragging Stiles out as he screamed.

               “Help! Somebody help me, please! Help me! Help me!”

               “No one can hear you, you little shit. I told you. We’re completely alone!” His voice echoed across the vacant plane. “Scream all you want!”

               “Help! Help me, please!” A fist to the face shut him up quickly. It was only then that Stiles saw the knife was gone and the wound had healed. Tears flooded his eyes, chin quivering, and a sob like he’d never heard erupted from inside himself. “Help me!”

               “You’re dead.”

               “No!” Tears obstructed his vision of, he was sure, the last time he’d get to see the outside world as Peter grabbed a fistful of his hair and used it to drag him back inside the house. Back into hell.


	7. AUGUST

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently planning on writing 10-11 chapters, so there isn't too much left.

               Whatever fight Stiles had left was thoroughly beaten out of him. His entire body shook from the effort required to stay alive, to stay aware. Most days he spent in his head, buried beneath the walls of the house, a padlock newly placed on the outer side of the basement door. But still Peter came in and kicked him around, reminding Stiles that he’d never make it out. Never see his family again. And was it so wrong how little this meant to him now?

_You’ll stay here forever._

_Sure._

_Your family will never know what happened to you._

_Okay._

_The heat will kill you before I do._

_Great._

 

               As the months dragged on, it became increasingly difficult to care. About anything. Stiles stopped moving, stopped sleeping, thinking, eating. He waited patiently for the elements to take him. Yet still, they did not. It seemed he was destined to suffer.

               “Hey, you.” The sound pulled Stiles from his daze. Peter was standing at the top of the steps, beckoning him forward, which was never good. “C’mere.” Either Stiles was getting weaker or gravity increased on him, either way the effort of standing left him breathless. He said nothing upon reaching the first floor, knowing better.

               Peter sat at the kitchen table, tying his shoes. “You haven’t fought me or tried to run away or even said one annoying thing all month…”

_Yippee._

               “So, I thought we could ride into town and grab some lunch.” _Town? What town?_ Stiles’s heart nearly catapulted itself from inside his chest. The idea of interacting with people was somehow both exhilarating and terrifying. Then it occurred to him that Peter might just drive further out into the desert and kill him. But, having held him captive for this long, why would he suddenly decide to get rid of him? _No,_ Stiles thought, _this is a test. A loyalty test._

               “Maybe put on a hat or something to distract from your sad face.” _God forbid anyone sympathize with me._ Peter grabbed an old baseball cap from a rack beside the door, shoving it onto Stiles’s head without care. “Perfect. Now, don’t speak, don’t draw attention to yourself, and no one will get hurt. Got it?” Stiles nodded before being shoved out the door. “Great!”

 

               He was blindfolded for part of the trip—the longest part, it felt like, thought afterward wasn’t much better. He’d been hoping for a nice landscape to dull some of his fear—a couple of trees, at least—but the first twenty minutes were nothing but fucking sand. If he ever got out of there, Stiles swore he’d never step foot on sand another day in his life.

               But then there was a house. An actual house that actual people lived in. And a dog. And more and more pieces of civilization crossed their path until they were in the belly of a town. And goddamn it, if it didn’t just about make him smile.

 

 _Big Al’s Kitchen_ was the most _small-town U.S.A_ diner Stiles had ever seen. A man who could have only been _Big Al_ himself greeted them inside with a jolly smile. “How can I help you gentlemen?”

               “Table for two, please,” Peter replied, grinning back with alarming charisma.

               “You got it.” The man—whose nametag did, in fact, read “Big Al” (point, Stiles)—grabbed two laminated menus from the counter behind him and escorted them to a booth across the room. Sitting down, the menus placed before them, Al commented, “You fellas driving through?”

               Peter chuckled. “Is it that obvious?”

               “Well, we don’t get that many strangers here, though we’re happy to have you.”

               “Happy to be here. My son and I are on our way to visit family in Texas.”

               Big Al’s face lit up, his back straightening. “Where in Texas? I got loads of family over there.”

               Peter didn’t even stop to think. He didn’t have to. With complete certainty, he replied, “Plainview.”

               “Ack, no. Mine are up north.”

               He scoffed. “Too bad, I was hoping I might have known them.”

               Big Al sighed, letting his weight fall onto one foot. “Well, I’ll let you decide what you want and Nancy should be around to take your order.”

               “Thank you so much.” Al turned his attention to Stiles and something in his expression changed, it became almost somber. And an immense rush swept over Stiles, every fiber of his being begging him to call out, to tell the truth. The man seemed so nice, he would _have_ to help him. He could finally get Stiles home!

 _No. Remember what Peter said, “Don’t draw attention to yourself and no one will get hurt.”_ There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that if he even considered asking for help, Peter would kill everyone in here. So he smiled at Al, trying to convince even himself that nothing was wrong. Just a father and son stopping for lunch.

               “We’d better get some food into you, son. You look like you’re about to keel over.”

               Peter laughed. “Has since his last growth spurt. I try to put some meat on those bones, but… what’re you going to do?” He laughed charismatically, maintaining eye contact with Al.

               “Sure,” he replied with a slight chuckle, giving Stiles one more look before turning to leave. Peter grabbed Stiles by the back of the neck and pulled him close to whisper, “Pretend you like me or I’ll bring his head back with us in a to-go bag.” Stiles forced a smile, sitting up straighter than before, while a part of him died. No one could help him. Not when battling the supernatural forces of evil. Or something worse, like Peter Hale.

 

               Nothing in the world had, or ever would, taste as good as that plate of chicken fingers. It wasn’t much, but it was still more than he could stomach. And for a few minutes, it was almost like he was home, having dinner with his dad. His real dad. Eating greasy diner food and making small talk as people bustle around him. For a minute, he forgot. And that made it so much harder to come back. It could never be like this again, considering no one was even looking for him. Hell, Stiles didn’t even know where he was, how where they supposed to? But maybe he could hold onto that peace for a little while, just get through the next five minutes. And then the five after that. If he could just make it through what little of the day was left, that would be a win.

               So he smiled when the waitress came to take their plates, and when Big Al told them to ‘have a nice day.’ He even smiled as they got in the car and started to drive home. No, not “home.” Back. Because at least he knew kindness still existed.


	8. SEPTEMBER

               “GET IN HERE.” The basement door seemed to swing open of its own volition by how quickly Peter was there and gone, his voice the only evidence. And he sounded angry. Well, angry in a way Stiles couldn’t place. Something was wrong. Something was out of his control and that meant nothing good.

               Stiles crept onto the first floor, greeted by a cacophony of footsteps, Peter was moving from room to room in quick succession. Following in his trail, Stiles passed through the living room, stopping in his tracks once he saw what was on TV.

_“... Stilinski, who has been missing since April. Could he have been found? Let’s hear what the man who claims to have seen him, Alan Myers, has to say.”_

_It cut to a shot of Big Al standing in the diner with that same morbid expression. You sly motherfucker,_ Stiles thought, grinning from ear to ear. _“He came into my diner a couple weeks ago lookin’ pretty bad. He didn’t speak or nothing, but I swore I recognized him from somewhere. Him and the gentlemen he was with. I wish I’d figured it out sooner, but once I did I immediately called the police and told them I’d seen that missing kid from California.”_

_The two news anchors nodded their heads in a faux-thoughtful way. “Unfortunately, there’s no footage of him, but Myers gave a description of both men to a police sketch artist.” The drawings appeared in the corner of the screen and sure enough, it was him and Peter. No doubt about it. “Local police, as well as the Beacon Hills PD, and the FBI are investigating this lead. America, we may just have found him yet.”_

               “What’re you smiling about?” Peter’s voice drew him from his euphoric daze.

               “They found me. They were looking for me! The whole time!”

               “No, they weren’t. They only started once that lardass gave us up.” He stopped moving for the first time, towering over Stiles with bitten-back aggression. “You think they were still looking for you? They gave up on you months ago, remember?”

 _Yes… No!_ “You’re lying,” Stiles exclaimed, fighting every ounce of himself that insisted otherwise.

               “Now, why would I lie to you, Stiles? We’re _friends_ ,” he drew the word out, advancing forward like the unmistakable predator he was.

               “Stop it,” Stiles said, taking small steps back without breaking eye contact. “You’re lying. You’ve been lying this whole time!”

               “Son, I only want what’s best for you.”

               “Shut up!”

               “I’ve been helping you.”

               “I said, ‘shut up!’” His back hit the wall. There was nowhere else to go, he’d been literally backed into a corner.

               “Yeah? Or what? You gonna stab me again?” There were tears streaming down Stiles’s face and he had no idea when that began. “’Cause that worked really well last time. Face it, kid, you can’t kill me!” A fist came swinging down at his head, colliding with the wall not inches away. Peter leaned in slowly until he was so close, Stiles couldn’t help but turn away in disgust, and whispered, “I’m all you’ve got. Now, pack your shit up and let’s go.”

 

               He had nothing to pack. Not that Peter brought much to the kidnapping himself. So with a paperclip holding his bangs out of his face and the clothes on his back, Stiles got in the passenger seat and tried to think of anything but the future. He often liked to go over facts in his head, things that he knew without a doubt were true. _A year is 365 days. The most common name in the world is Mohammed. There are fifty-two cards in a deck. The human body contains 206 bones._

               They ditched their car in another town and stole a new one from outside a church. It even had seatbelts. And after several hours on the road, Stiles finally learned that for the past five months, he’d been hiding in New Mexico. This gave him hope. Sure, it didn’t matter now that they were leaving, but at least he learned something new.

               Peter must have not been worried about police for whatever reason, seeing as he let Stiles ride in the front seat the entire way. _Maybe,_ he thought, _it’s because he’s off his game. There wasn’t time to plan ahead._ But whatever the reason, Stiles was infinitely glad to not be locked in the trunk. It reminded him of being at the diner—there was an inexplicable sense of normalcy. Over the last several months, he’d been locked in a basement, starved, beaten, and manipulated. Now, here, he was well-fed, riding shotgun on (for lack of a better word) a roadtrip. By all conceivable odds, his life wasn’t in danger. Peter wanted him alive. Missing and completely under his control. But _alive_. To some extent, weight lifted from his emaciated shoulders.

               But still, his mind was a warzone from which there was no refuge. One part celebrating the small sense of relief, and another, consumed by hypervigilance, refusing to accept that anything was good. That there was any reason to hope. Though, thankfully, car rides put him to sleep. Always had. And considering this was the most comfortable place he’d been in a long time, it felt to him like a luxury.

 

               The next time Stiles awoke, he was being shaken from the open door.

               “C’mon,” Peter said, voice rough from the long trip. Stiles followed him wordlessly, unconcerned in his sleep-drunk state where he was being led only to find that they were once again switching cars. The air outside felt wonderful, like nothing he’d experienced in a long time. The cool breeze sent goosebumps down his arms, overcast sky aiding in the low temperature. Stiles had never been so happy to be cold.

               He opened the passenger side door only to be swatted away. “Nuh-uh, if you’re going to sleep the whole way, get in the back.” And he was more than happy to do so. Screw seatbelts, Stiles laid down, crossing his arms under his head, and quickly fell back asleep.

 

               A door slammed shut, startling him awake. Stiles had no sense of how long he’d been asleep, but if the puddle of drool beside him was any indication, it had been quite a while.

               “Get out,” Peter called. “We’re here.” He sat up, allowing his eyes to adjust, and what he found could not have been further from their previous hide-out. It was, of all things, a cabin in the middle of the woods. The air outside was even colder than before, making him wish he owned a jacket. Or at least a blanket. But hey, who was he to complain? At least it wasn’t the desert.

               “Le’mme guess,” he said, “’we’re dozens of miles from civilization so don’t even try to run?’”

               “Quick learner,” Peter replied, patting him on the back in an almost paternal gesture, grabbing several plastic bags from the trunk.

               “Where are we?”

               “Colorado.”

               Stiles stumbled over his own feet, the world now spinning. “How long was I asleep,” he asked, mouth gaping.

               Peter shrugged and sighed loudly. “I dunno, like seven, eight hours. Take this inside and put it away.” He handed Stiles the bags of what he could now see were groceries, stomach growling at the very concept.

               As per usual, Stiles did what he was told, placing each item with care in a way that most resembled the old house. The inside of the cabin felt rather cliched—though again, who was he to complain—with wooden walls and floors, and what must have been vintage furniture. _Great,_ he thought, _get some plaid, maybe an axe, I’ll fit right in._ A wave of reality grounded him in nought-point-two-seconds, the knowledge that he was further away from home, that he left right as they were on his trail. And now, a new state, a new, wide berth separating him from the outside world. But a new reason to hope. They _were_ looking for him. Fervently. And if that many people were working to find him, they would. They had to. They just had to.

               “You done,” Peter called, stepping into the house and wiping his feet on an old rug.

               Stiles busied himself with straightening the items in the pantry. “Yep.”

               “Good. Let’s see what’s on the news.”


	9. OCTOBER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is trapped in the closet. (sorry)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's late. I struggled with this chapter.

             The cabin had no basement. And Stiles didn’t think anyone had ever been so excited about architecture as when he discovered this. That being said, he had to be kept somewhere, and in the absence of a basement, Peter opted to lock him away in a hallway closet. When he stood, rows of shelves hung behind his head, Stiles could never be more than four inches from the door. Sitting, however, allowed for more room, almost enough to stretch his arms. Almost. And sure, he’d been locked in a basement, locked in a trunk, stuck in a car for nine hours with his captor. But this was somehow different. He spent hours tapping his fingers on his knees, the floor, anything to make him feel mobile. Pretty soon, it became involuntary. A compulsion, he supposed. Tapping his fingers constantly— _one, two, three, four, five—one, two, three, four, five._ It kept his mind distracted from the ever-shrinking space. From aching joints and distant noises— _one, two, three, four, five._

             The sliver of light that traveled under the door gradually disappeared, signaling to him that it was night. That he’d been in there for an entire day. No, more than a day.

             Try as he might, Stiles couldn’t remember what time he’d been locked in there. A low groan rumbled inside his chest, a desperate sound like something was trying to escape. And truthfully, he had begun to suspect that if he wasn’t let out soon, he’d combust.

             “Let me out,” he mumbled, trying his own voice on for size after hours of neglect. “Let me out.” Stiles pressed his feet against the door, wondering if he could kick it open with enough aggression. “Let me out,” he exclaimed, stomping one foot and then the other until he was swinging his feet with all the strength he could muster. “LET ME OUT. LET ME OUT. LET ME OUT.”

             Angry footsteps. _I’ve made a mistake._ Getting closer. _No, no, no._ The lock turned. Door opened. Stiles was grabbed with claws pressed against his skin, dragged out, and thrown down against a musty, wool rug. His head collided with the floor, taking the brunt of his weight. Ears ringing. Room spinning. Peter lunged at him and Stiles felt his touch before he saw it, brain struggling to keep up. He was grabbed by the collar, head lifted just above the ground. And without warning, struck down once again. Any vision Stiles might have had previously was knocked loose, not sure whether he was really lying on the ground or not. Another hit. Tears streamed down his face, whether from the crying or the beating, he wasn’t sure.

             “Stop,” he begged, the man before him a violent blur.

             “I will teach you,” _bruised cheekbone_ “to respect me,” _broken nose_ “if it takes years!” Peter threw Stiles down so that his head hit the floor again.

             “I’m sorry,” he screamed, throwing both arms in front of his face, though this only inspired Peter to utilize his claws. Stiles yelled out in pain as his arms were sliced repeatedly, the blood dripping onto his face, into his eyes. “I’m sorry!”

             “You pathetic son of a bitch,” Peter shouted as he climbed to his feet, kicking Stiles once in the stomach for good measure. “If I want you to, you’ll live in that closet until you forget what the sun looks like! You hear me?”

             “Yes!” _Cough_. “I’m sorry!” _Cough_. If there was one thing Peter Hale was exceptional at, it was waiting just long enough between beatings to allow Stiles to forget what the last felt like. To forget the sensation of breathlessness that comes with being kicked in the stomach. But mostly, he left just enough time for Stiles to forget how effective it was at making him comply, because in that moment, he would have done just about anything to make Peter happy. And it disgusted him.

             Peter turned to leave, pausing in thought before he swung back around, kicking Stiles one last time in the chest and knocking him out cold. And maybe it was a blessing, not having to be conscious for a little while.

 

             When he awoke later on, it was to the smell of smoke—his first thought being, “Peter’s set the house on fire.” Thankfully, he was wrong. Though reality once again proved to not be much better than his wildest fears.

             Stiles climbed to his feet, the hardwood floors a surprise in contrast to the worn-down soles of his shoes. Why would Peter take his shoes? He hobbled along to the front of the cabin, peering out through the screen door to find a—for lack of a better word—bonfire and Peter standing off to the side looking proud as ever. It was something about the look on his face, not the bundle of burning rubber, that told Stiles all he needed to know: he no longer owned a pair of shoes. Was this a precautionary measure or just to spite him?

             Little by little, he’d been stripped of his identity. Peter never allowed him to wash his old clothes, preferring instead that he walk around in ill-fitting hand-me-downs. He hadn’t allowed Stiles to cut his hair which was now on its way to being long enough to tie back. He wasn’t even allowed shoes. The very last personal item he had. Gone. No, _destroyed_. Because it wasn’t enough to simply take things away when he could rip them violently from existence. Stiles was no longer an individual. He was a reflection of his captor. Nothing more. Nothing less.

 

             Stiles was allowed just enough time to become numb to the pain of his injuries before the door reopened. He recoiled, shuffling back until he was pressed against the wall, but he was not lunged at like expected. Instead, Peter stood in the doorway just as casually as if he were visiting a friend, and beckoned Stiles forward.

             “We’re going out.”

             “Again?” The word slipped from Stiles’s mouth before he could stop it.

             “Yes,” Peter said, maintaining eye contact so piercing Stiles had to look away. “Again. Unless you had other plans.” He shook his head, eyes cast down. This wasn’t an argument. There was no question who was in charge. “Get your jacket,” Peter said, halfway out the door.

             He paused, not sure whether he should respond. “I don’t have a jacket.”

             “Then shut up.” _Fair enough,_ he thought, _I brought that on myself._ Going out in October with no jacket and no shoes. _No problem_. He’d endured worse. It wouldn’t be fun, but that wasn’t exactly groundbreaking information.

             Stiles spent the entire car ride into town dreaming of food, trying to remember what certain things tasted like, and imagining what he would order. He flipped through a mental menu, savoring every word, and did so until they arrived.

 _At a bar? Correction, a_ dive _bar._ Nothing could have been further from what he had expected. _You can’t fold a piece of paper in half more than seven times. Our eyes don’t grow from birth. There are more chickens than people. Peter probably decided to come here because drunk people are less likely to recognize us. Yeah, that’s probably all it is._ They sat in silence for several minutes, both watching people enter and leave the bar. And _if,_ Stiles thought, _if this was all they were going to do, he could handle it. It was weird and disappointing, but he could handle it._ That’s when Peter spoke up.

             “Let’s go,” he said, unbuckling his seatbelt in one swift move, making it far too obvious that they weren’t here for drinks. Stiles was appalled at how quickly he followed suit, more afraid of Peter than whatever was outside of that car. But regardless, he followed him away from the relatively well-lit bar, round the corner, and into an alleyway where a man stood, illuminated only by the faint light of his cigarette. He had to be six feet tall and twice Stiles’s weight with everything from his hands to his face covered in tattoos. So naturally, Peter walked straight up to him, looking meager in comparison.

             They exchanged looks and the stranger spoke up. “Fuck are you lookin’ at,” he said, his voice deep and rough and exactly how Stiles had imagined it would be.

             Peter sighed, nodding his head thoughtfully. “Oh, yeah. You’re perfect.”

             The man took several steps forward, towering over Peter like a mountain. It was only now that Stiles noticed the scar running down one side of the man’s face. The kind you get from a bar fight or maybe a Viking raid. “The fuck did you just say?”

             “You,” Peter called, turning his head to look at Stiles. “C’mere.” His feet moved of their own accord before he could think to do otherwise, each step bringing him closer to certain death. What was he going to do, make them fight? Stiles wouldn’t stand a chance, all hundred pounds of him, against this goliath. When he was close enough, Peter wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and dragged him closer. “Hold this,” he said, handing him an opened pocket knife. The stranger went red with fury and opened his mouth to speak when a pair of claws sunk down into his shoulder, lowering him to his knees with a painful cry.

             “What are you doing,” Stiles exclaimed, dropping the knife and stepping back, away from the scene.

             “Pick up the knife.”

             “What?”

             “Pick it up!” He did as he was instructed, flooding with self-loathing at his own inability to refuse. “Atta boy. Now do me a favor, okay? Stab him.”

             “I’ll kill you! Get off of me!” The man fought against Peter’s claws, yelling out as blood poured down his chest. Stiles swore he blacked out for a second, almost losing balance before coming back to full attention.

             “Come on, kid. Do it.” Just when Stiles thought he couldn’t hit a new low, Peter pulled out all the stops. He orchestrated the worst situation Stiles could imagine himself in thus far, which was saying quite a lot.

             “No,” he said, afraid to look Peter in the eye.

             “Excuse me?” His heart dropped into his stomach, chest flooding with heat. At this point, he wasn’t sure what was holding him up as he couldn’t even feel his own legs.

             “No,” he repeated, swallowing hard. “I won’t do it.”

             It was hard to miss the low growl that came from Peter’s chest. He bent his head to either side, reveling in the way his neck cracked. “Listen,” he said matter-of-factly. “Here’s how it’s going to go, either you stab him or I’ll kill him.” He sunk his claws deeper into the man’s flesh with obvious joy.

             “Why are you doing this,” Stiles asked, trying desperately not to look at the man’s face.

             “Why,” Peter exclaimed with a laugh. “Because, apparently, you wanted to stab someone. So here you go. Here’s your chance to get out all of that pent-up aggression. Pretend he’s me, huh? This man’s held you captive for six months. He’s starved you, beaten you. You want to hurt him. Come on. Do it. Do it.”

             “No!”

             “Do it or I’ll kill him!” _This is a dream. A bad dream. Just a dream. Just a dream. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real._ This time, he definitely blacked out. The next thing Stiles knew, he was standing over the man’s body, throat brutally slashed, Peter’s hands covered in his blood. He didn’t remember walking there or the death itself. But here he was, clothes splattered in blood other than his own. He may not have ever laid a hand on that man, but there was no doubt he had killed him. He wasn’t just an abducted kid anymore, he was a murderer.

             Behind him, Peter stretched his arms above his head and sighed, wiping the blood onto his shirt. “We should probably head back. It’s getting late.” _One, two, three, four, five—_ Stiles counted rapidly in his head, tapping his fingers together, as tears streamed down his face. _One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five._

             “What?” Peter laughed, wrapping an arm around Stiles’s shoulders, leading him back to the car. He stopped suddenly, grabbing Stiles by the back of the neck and pulling him close to whisper, “That’ll teach you to never try that shit again.”


	10. NOVEMBER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the end...

              When Stiles looked in the mirror, he no longer saw himself. There was no bit of him left to recognize. Forget the weight loss or the long hair, his nose had been broken so many times, it was now permanently crooked. His eyes were large and sunken in. His face and body had been mutilated time and time again so that he’d never be able to hide his trauma. Even if he got out of here, he’d never be fully rid of it. And maybe that was the point. Maybe that was why Peter did all of this in the first place. Just to ruin someone’s life. Well, if that was the case, he succeeded. And it wasn’t even just his appearance—Stiles had suffered so much blunt force trauma to his head that his eyesight had worsened significantly, his ears never stopped ringing, and he’d learned to live with a constant headache on top of it all.

              This wasn’t living. It was barely surviving.

              Once it got too cold to leave Stiles in the closet overnight, he would be let out and tied to the heater in the living room. _It could have been worse,_ he thought, _Peter could have used handcuffs instead of rope._ Though somehow, thankfully, it seemed he hadn’t been able to acquire a pair of handcuffs. _No cops to steal them from this far into the mountains._ He could’ve done without sharing the room, but honestly, who cared when you finally got to stretch your legs? It could have been worse, and he reminded himself of that every day.

 

              Once it started snowing—and didn’t stop—Stiles was made to shovel the yard for hours. Not for any particular reason, like practicality. It wasn’t that anyone was planning on going anywhere. Peter just liked to watch him freeze. He had _so kindly_ gifted Stiles a pair of socks and nothing else. Thankfully, temperatures had barely dropped below freezing, but shoveling snow in a t-shirt and jeans made him actually miss New Mexico. Well, only a little.

              Stiles would run into the house for two-to-three-minute breaks before being sent back out into the biting cold. Though the cabin wasn’t heated, a small fire warmed the interior just slightly, and really, getting his toes out of the snow was top priority. It wasn’t long before he couldn’t feel them altogether and mourned for the bits he might lose to frostbite. There was no doubt in his mind that it was possible. Not just possible, likely. Peter would enjoy watching his toes turn black and fall off. He loved seeing Stiles in severe pain.

              Finally allowed to finish for the day, Stiles collapsed in front of the lit fireplace, rubbing his hands and feet together fervently.

              “You cold,” Peter asked, apparently feeling the need to remind the state of Colorado that he was the biggest dick to ever walk the face of the Earth. Not that anyone had forgotten.

              “Yes,” Stiles replied, surprising himself with a newfound apathy that must come with hypothermia. “Yes, I’m fucking cold.” This made Peter laugh, the ultimate red alert.

              “I can help you with that,” he said, crouching down beside Stiles with a wicked grin. “There’s an old Hale family trick.” Stiles rightly jumped back as Peter reached for him, grabbing his ankle with all the unfair werewolf strength that he wouldn’t be able to fight even outside of his current condition.

              “Let go of me!” Stiles fought him as best he could, but considering he could barely even feel the foot that was being gripped, it was a waste of effort. The color drained completely from his face as Peter dragged his leg closer to the fire, holding it so that the flames licked the bottom of his foot, melting the top layer of skin. The scream that erupted from inside him was like nothing he’d heard before. Nothing in all his years of fighting supernatural monsters or guarding his friends during full moons. It left his throat entirely raw and sore enough to match the rest of his injuries. As soon as his leg was released, Stiles crawled to the corner of the room, tucking both knees into his chest, and severely wishing he were dead. Why couldn’t he just be dead? Why couldn’t Peter end this already? He didn’t want to live the rest of his life this way, always teeter-tottering between frostbite and heatstroke. Always walking on knife-sharp eggshells.

              Stiles quickly wiped the tears from his eyes, knowing they would only encourage Peter further, and instead, screwed his eyes shut, imagining he was back home in Beacon Hills. _There was his dad, all crinkled eyes and big smiles, welcoming him back with a tight hug. If he tried really hard, Stiles could catch the familiar scent of cologne, whisky, and burnt police station coffee. He could feel his dad’s arms wrapped around him, hesitant to let him go._ Please don’t let me go.

_“Stiles,” his dad would say, “I never stopped looking for you.”_

_“I know. I knew you wouldn’t.”_

_“Not for a second.”_

_“It hurts so much. Make it stop. Dad, please.” Stiles couldn’t feel his father’s arms around him anymore, couldn’t smell his cologne._ Without meaning to, he opened his eyes and reality forced its way back into his psyche, bringing with it full attention to his blistering foot. Stiles carefully stood, propping himself against the wall for support, and started hobbling toward the door.

              “Where do you think you’re going,” Peter called from his comfortable spot on the couch.

              Stiles froze, biting back his tendency toward snarky replies, and wiped the remaining water from his eyes. “To wash my foot.”

              “I don’t remember saying you could do that.” Stiles didn’t even have to look at him to read his expression, it was plenty evident in his voice.

              “Do you want it to get infected?” He sighed. “Who am I kidding? Of course, you do.”

              Peter laughed, throwing his arms behind his head. “Now, I didn’t say that. I can be a reasonable guy, right?” Stiles didn’t reply, he had been hoping it was rhetorical. Peter raised his chin, craning his neck in an unmistakably predatory way. “Right,” he asked again, maintaining the kind of strong, unblinking eye contact only a Hale could.

              “Yeah,” Stiles mumbled, swallowing his pride. “Sure.”

              Peter hopped to his feet, closing in on him in seconds. “You being a smartass, kid?”

              “No. No, I’m sorry,” he cried, instinctively curling in on himself. “You’re very reasonable to me. Very kind.”

              “I am, aren’t I?”

              “Mm-hm.”

              “Look at me.” He couldn’t. “ _Look at me_.” Stiles took a deep breath and slowly turned to look at Peter who was no more than a foot away, effectively making him feel like a baby bird caught in a lion’s den. “You know what happens when I get mad. Bad things, right?” Stiles nodded. “Good. Then don’t make me mad. We’ve been doing this for almost a year now. When are you going to learn to respect me?” A scoff came out of his mouth before he could register having reacted at all. _Secret time-freezing powers, this would be a great moment to kick in._

              Peter was shaking his head. “You little bastard.” And it might not have quite been the power he was hoping for, but to the surprise of them both, Stiles hit the ground right as Peter’s fist made contact with the mirror hanging behind him, effectively shattering it into pieces.

              “You see what you made me do,” he exclaimed, grabbing Stiles by the collar of his shirt and throwing him into the pile of broken glass. “Clean it up. I want every goddamn piece off the floor, you hear me?” Stiles nodded his head, eyes cast down. Maybe if he didn’t fuck anything else up today, he wouldn’t be hurt more. Maybe if he cleaned up, that would be the end of that. He hoped. And right now, hope was all he had.

              While gathering up the pieces, Stiles caught a glimpse of his reflection in one of the larger shards. This wasn’t him. It hadn’t been for a long time. He looked like a dog someone left chained to a fence. Profanity spewed from his lips as the edge of the glass slid across his hand, slicing the top layer of skin. Sure, it wasn’t a knife, but imagine what he could to do Peter with something this sharp. As awful as it sounds, imagining himself hurting Peter was one of the few things that got Stiles through each day. Through each beating. Come to think of it, why did Peter trust him enough to leave him alone with sharp objects in the first place? Was he no longer afraid of retaliation? _With that much narcissism, probably not._ He probably didn’t even think Stiles had it in him.

 _And maybe,_ he thought, _that’s exactly what I need._ Stiles quickly pocketed the shard, sticking it under the waistband of his pants, and praying to any deity that might have been listening that this didn’t get him killed.

 

              Stiles went about the rest of his day as usual, cleaning, hiding, pretending not to exist, trying to come up with a fun alternative reason to be freezing alone in a coat closet. Sadly, nothing came to mind other than “caught in an avalanche” and that didn’t seem like too much fun. And then, like clockwork, after the sun went down and he’d had plenty of time to himself, Peter opened the closet door, escorting him to the living room.

              “I’ll tell you what,” Peter said as he tied the rope around Stiles’s wrist, barely leaving enough room for blood to circulate. “If you behave, I just might get you some bandages so you can wrap up that foot. I know you’re worried about it.”

              He feigned a half smile, trying to rest his arm somewhere comfortable. “Thanks.”

              “No problem,” he said like the humble monk he was. Stiles had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Although, Peter Hale may not have been a lot of things, but he seemed to be a man of his word. Oddly enough.

              Initially, Stiles had been worried that he might actually fall asleep, but the way he was positioned caused the glass to dig into his stomach and the real concern was whether or not he could seem relaxed at all. It must have worked because not an hour later, Peter was snoring like a freight train. As Stiles pulled the glass out from under his shirt he froze, wondering if this would really be worth it. His last attempt had blown up in his face and if he tried and failed a second time, there was no telling what could happen. So was it really worth the risk to escape?

 _Yes,_ he told himself rather forcefully. _Just do it. Just fucking do it._ After a quick glance to ensure his captor was still sound asleep, Stiles tried to hold the glass in the way that would cause the least amount of self-injury and began cutting the rope which wasn’t nearly as easy as it sounded. By the time it’d been severed, a pool of blood had accumulated beside the heater. He couldn’t worry about that now. Stiles climbed to his feet, still surprised by his own physical unease. He gripped the glass shard tightly in his already mutilated hand, staring down his sleeping captor. Memories of his last attempt flooded his head, bringing tears to his eyes. In that moment, Stiles decided that if he didn’t make it out, he’d have to take his own life. _I can’t do this anymore. I can’t._

              He tiptoed across the room to where Peter was sleeping soundly, raised the makeshift weapon, and swung as hard as he could at Peter’s chest. Before he could even recognize having injured him, Peter was sitting up, howling in pain, half transformed. Now that he could actually get a good look, Stiles saw that the blade was sticking out of his heart, copious amounts of blood spilling over his chest. There were no threats, no slander—in this moment, he was nothing more or less than a wolf. Peter grabbed hold of the glass, tearing it from his chest and threw it to the ground, and though his wound would obviously heal, with its severity, it did so much more slowly than usual. He limped forward, fangs barred, and Stiles knew he’d struck him in the heart. Like, successfully. Like, he didn’t totally fuck it up in a blind panic. But there was no time to be proud. Peter was descending on him and all Stiles could see was his imminent death.

              He lunged toward the discarded piece of glass, finding himself pinned down before he could reach it underneath two-hundred pounds of unbridled rage.

              “You just never learn, do you?” Peter growled. Stiles said nothing. He tried not to listen either, concentrating instead on escaping. Claws digging into the back of his head, Stiles wasn’t sure if what he felt running down his neck was sweat or blood. Or both. Probably both. Peter slammed his head against the hardwood floor for not even the first time that day. And honestly, if Stiles got out of this brain-damage free… well… if he got out of this…

              He reached out blindly, all of his senses muddled with pain, until he felt it. The glass. He found it. Stiles gripped it tightly in his hand and swung backward, hitting Peter despite the awkward angle. A purely animalistic roar encompassed the entire room as Peter shot back onto his knees, blood pouring now from a gaping wound in his side. Utilizing this opportunity, Stiles rolled out from under him, leaping onto his feet, and swinging his weapon of choice without any real sense of direction. Though, to be honest, he couldn’t see straight enough to target a specific spot anyway. He swung at the blurry image of his captor. And heard another roar. He swung again. Another. And again. And did so until it was no longer a call and response.

              He didn’t stop to check for a pulse or have the last word, there was no declaration of victory. The moment Peter lay still, Stiles took off, swinging the front door of the cabin open, and just ran. Again, there was no sense of direction. There was nothing to run _to._ All around him was snow and darkness. No sign of life anywhere. But still, he continued on.

 

              Later on, Stiles would admit to not remembering how long he was out there or nearly how far he got. When thinking back, it seemed like no time at all, while in the moment, it was an eternity. Stiles ran until his face bled from the biting cold, until his bare feet were completely numb, not the least bit sure how he was still going. It didn’t feel like running at all. After a while, Stiles could have sworn he was simply floating, watching his body move from somewhere above. The only thing he remembered from that night after leaving the cabin was a faint light somewhere in the distance. _A star,_ he thought, burning such a warm yellow he could almost feel its heat.

              At some point, Stiles stopped running. Stopped moving altogether. He simply stood, watching the light beckon him forward, welcoming him home. _It’s okay,_ it said, _I’ve got you._ And without hesitation, he gave himself over fully, walking into the open arms of the warm, yellow light.


	11. DECEMBER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to quickly thank everyone who’s read, liked, and commented on “Runaway.” I don’t share my writing a lot and the feedback I’ve gotten has been absolutely incredible! At the risk of sounding sappy, it’s really, really meant a lot to me. Thank you again. And if you want, you can check out my Tumblr blog where I’m much more present and more than happy to interact with you guys: [luna3141.tumblr.com](http://www.luna3141.tumblr.com)  
> 

              Being home was the most surreal thing. For several days, Stiles was wary of his surroundings, of the presence of loved ones. It seemed far too good to be true. But after a while, he adjusted. He always did.

              Since waking up in the hospital several days ago, neither his dad, nor Scott, left his side for a moment. If one was hungry, the other would get them a snack. They took turns sleeping in the one reclining chair in the room, neither ever complaining about being uncomfortable or wanting to go home. Everyone visited, in fact. And Melissa became his primary nurse against regulation. It shouldn’t have surprised him so much after literally spending his life with these people, but Peter’s words still floated in his head like storm clouds.

_They haven’t even noticed you’re gone._

_Beacon Hills is a better place without you._

_See, Stiles? This is why they aren’t looking for you._

_I only want what’s best for you._

 

              He had a primary doctor who was trained in fucked-up situations or something like that and a lawyer who came around every couple of days to talk to the Sheriff outside the room. One day, during a scheduled visit, Scott and Stiles both heard him break down in the hallway, drawing the attention of everyone nearby. The nurses stopped working to see what had happened. The entire fifth floor fell silent in contrast to one man’s wailing cry. Stiles would later discover that this was his response to seeing photos of the places he and Peter stayed. And honestly, Stiles didn’t remember them looking _that_ terrible. Abandoned, yes. A little run down. But nothing out of a horror movie. _Maybe,_ he thought, _it isn’t about seeing them, but knowing what they are._

              A team of cops and FBI agents took turns asking him about his experience. Some questions harder to answer than others, especially in front of his dad who insisted on staying until he could no longer bear it. Stiles often caught him looking at the scar on his face rather than his eyes when they spoke or watching intently as Melissa changed the bandages on his fresher wounds.

 

              After beginning to settle in to life in Beacon Hills, regaining the ability to relax for a number of seconds at a time, Stiles was taken in for an MRI where they did, in fact, find signs of minor brain damage. Nothing too serious on the spectrum of “serious shit”, but his eyesight would never improve and he’d likely experience chronic headaches for the rest of his life. The doctors told him this gently, each watching his face for any sign of panic, but honestly, he wasn’t sure he cared. It wasn’t like “Oh thank God I’m home, all my troubles are solved.” But more, “who cares? What does it matter?” Which only seemed to alarm them more.

              The next day, they set his ribs. The day after that, he had minor surgery on his feet. And after that, his BMI was calculated. It was something new every day until Stiles couldn’t move at all. Everyone hurried around him, checking his pulse and heartrate and breathing and temperature and… nothing was wrong. By all odds, he should have been feeling better than ever. Still, it wasn’t that simple. He asked to be left alone as much as possible, and considering his progressing health, they allowed it. He asked for the door to his room to be kept closed, it was too loud outside. This went on until Stiles was sat alone in his unlit room, listening only to the beeping of the heart monitor, allowing sores to collect on his back with each passing day. Until someone intervened.

              “Stiles,” a voice called from somewhere in his periphery. “Stiles.” He looked up. It was Melissa, standing just inside the room. He lay his head back down, facing the wall. “You need to get up.” Her voice was gentle, loving. It made him physically sick.

              “Stiles,” she continued, approaching him gingerly like one does a stray animal. “You’ve done nothing but lie in that bed for four days, pretty soon you’ll be fused to the mattress and it’s not as cool as it sounds.” As far as she could tell, he wasn’t even aware of her presence. “You’ve got to get that blood pumping to heal properly.” She took a seat at the end of his bed. “Stiles?”

              To the surprise of them both, his only response was, “I’m sorry.”

              “For what,” she asked, visibly frustrated by this.

              “I’m sorry,” he repeated, each syllable shrinking in size.

              “Honey, listen to me. You have _nothing_ to be sorry for. This isn’t your fault.”

 _“i’m sorry.”_ A whisper. _“i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry_ —” A nurse was called. Another nurse. Sedated him. He’d been shouting. Not whispering. He was shouting and didn’t even know it. Before slipping contently out of consciousness, he counted four people in the room. Three of whom were crying. Still.

 

              Later that day, Stiles woke up alone. No, not alone. A woman sat in one of the chairs across the room, reading a magazine. He couldn’t see her face, but was already certain he didn’t know her. Moving to sit up in the hospital bed caught her attention. She lowered the magazine with a calculated smile he immediately recognized as belonging to a psychiatrist.

              “Good morning, Stiles.” _Okay, so not later that day._

              “Where’s my dad,” he asked, eyeing the exits instinctively.

              “He and Scott are just in the waiting room down the hall so we can talk, but I can get them if you’d like.” He shook his head, not getting any aggressive vibes from _Dr. Butterfly Earrings._ “Mind if I sit here,” she asked, nodding toward the chair closest to him. He shrugged. She took a seat, folding her hands in her lap, still smiling very carefully. From this distance, he could see that her nametag read, “Dr. DeMayo.”

              “How are you feeling?”

              Again, he shrugged. “I dunno.”

              “Well,” she said, “tell me _what_ you’re feeling.”

              Stiles repressed the urge to roll his eyes, all too familiar with this brand of back-and-forth. He sighed, trying to concentrate. “I feel… tired.” She nodded, pressing him on. “And confused.”

              “How so?”

              “Well,” he said, struggling to even focus through a sentence. “The whole world did a three-sixty, ninety degrees at a time.”

              She squished her eyebrows together and asked, “What do you mean?”

              “I mean, I was kidnapped by a sociopath!”

              “And then?”

              Stiles froze. That was not to any degree the response he’d expected. “And then what?”

              She leaned forward slightly, crossing her legs, listening intently. “What was the next ninety-degree change?”

              In her defense, he really had to think about that one. There was far too much to process, it made his head hurt. Well, hurt more. “I guess… I mean… he wasn’t always, like, totally bad. I mean, I hate him, obviously, but there were times when...” He trailed off, unable to think of a suitable word to sum this up.

              “When he was okay?”

              Stiles nodded, gaze falling to his own hands. “Yeah. Sometimes we’d just watch TV together. I never got to choose what we watched, but for a little while, I didn’t feel like my life was in danger. Sometimes he even _appreciated_ when I’d clean.”

              “He made you clean?”

              He nodded. “And sometimes he’d say stuff like, ‘Nice job’ or ‘Really good work, son.’ And he’d pat me on the shoulder.” They both fell silent as the room somehow took on a new severity. Stiles understood how crazy he must have sounded. It’s not like he wanted to be Peter’s friend, but the man did keep him alive for several months despite the elements fighting to take him. “Is he okay?”

              Dr. DeMayo narrowed her eyes, watching Stiles carefully. Studying his expression, he imagined. She wanted to know if Stiles missed him or something. “Peter Hale is dead. His body’s in a morgue in Colorado.” Dead or not, knowing how far away he was allowed Stiles to relax considerably. After all, he’d suspected Peter had died that night, not that anyone would tell him. Werewolves don’t play dead.

              “How does that information make you feel, Stiles?”

              “I dunno.”

              She waited for him to elaborate until it became clear he would not. “Okay, tell me about the next big change.” Again, he had to think about it, had to consider what was and was not real. What was the next tectonic shift?

              “After a while, he got…” Stiles trailed off, searching again for the right word. “Crueler.” She waited for him to continue. He’d noticed that doctors did that when you’d really said something good. “At first it was just punches, kicks—stuff like that. I mean, like high-school-bully stuff. But then he started locking me in the basement for long periods of time, and withholding food and water, and making me watch the updates of my case before anyone knew what’d happened.”

              Dr. DeMayo leaned forward, hanging on every word. “He’d smile through the whole thing and say, ‘They aren’t even looking for you.’”

              “Did you believe him,” she asked in a soft voice.

              Stiles couldn’t bear to reply, but she understood. He didn’t need to.

 

              They talked for a long time as Stiles found that once he opened up about his experience, he couldn’t stop. Every word lifted weight from his emaciated shoulders until he could just about smile.

              Finally, at the end of the conversation, Dr. DeMayo sat up straight, a satisfied grin on her face, and said, “Is there anything else you’d like to ask?”

              “They said that some guy found me in the woods that night, but I don’t really remember it. I’m still not really sure how I got here.”

              “That’s not uncommon,” she said. “It sounds like you disassociated during your escape and I can only imagine physical exhaustion played a large role as well.”

              “What do you mean,” he asked.

              “Stiles,” she said in such a way it sounded like an exclamation. “You walked almost thirty miles from the cabin.”

              “What?”

              “And didn’t stop until you were at a house.”

              “That’s how he found me?”

              “Yes,” she said, her excitement (against all professionalism) palpable. “Passed out in the snow. His dog spotted you as soon as you were on their property and got the owner’s attention. Stiles, you truly survived against all odds.”

 

              It would take a long time for her words to fully sink in, but in the meantime, Stiles was allowed to finally go home and get settled into his new-old life. Christmas, though haphazard, was everything he’d hoped it would be. Everyone came over to spend some of the day with the Stilinski boys, exchanging gifts and love and warm hugs. Though he wasn’t anywhere near okay, and assumed he wouldn’t be for a long time, Stiles was home. He was loved. He was safe. And he was healing.

 

 

THE END


End file.
